In Silence
by emrie
Summary: What happened between Josh and Donna after they left the bar on Election Night, but before they woke up awkward at 3 in the morning? This story attempts to fill in those gaps.


**Rating**: PG-13

**Spoilers**: Up through "Election Day Part 1"

**Author's Notes**: Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Please drop me a line to let me know any lines you liked or anything that stood out! Details are always adored, but I love any feedback!

**O**

It was so hard to keep walking towards the elevator, when all Donna wanted was to glance back, to see if he actually was following this time. Every ounce of willpower was going into her forward trajectory, eyes front, walking steadily. She was pretty sure she'd made herself clear, and there was no key to misplace this time, but she was also sure if there were some way to screw it up, Josh would do it.

It was risky, walking away from him like that and trusting that he'd follow, but oh it was worth it, if only for pure cinematic genius. She'd spent years wishing for a movie moment in her life, a man to declare his love for her in a public place, or to waltz in and sweep her off her feet at work. It had taken her this long to realize she didn't have to wait for a guy to make the moment: she could do it herself. Or at least, she could try. That first time, when she'd offered Josh her key, she'd been so proud of herself, for being brave, and for crafting a brilliant moment of her own. Trick was, the guy had to be clever enough to play along, or she just looked like an idiot.

Well, at least she'd already left the bar behind, so if he didn't follow her she wouldn't have to lock eyes with him and wonder why. There was no concrete reminder of her offer this time, only negotiable subtext, and it would be easy to pretend it had never happened.

Trying not to think that way, Donna kept her eyes trained straight ahead as she pushed the going-up button, took a half step back to wait. She stared absently at the smooth metal doors in front of her, and then saw something which made her stomach flip over.

There he was, just behind her. Walking with that slow, knowing prowl that she knew so well. But this time he wasn't going fast, doing ten tasks at once and holding conversations on the fly. He was intent, focused, his gaze direct and bright; he was honing in on her with the slow determination of a wildcat.

He stopped barely a pace behind her, and she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to test whether she could feel his presence, his body heat. She could. When she opened her eyes the elevator doors were sliding open, and she stepped automatically inside. He moved when she did, one hand lightly brushing the small of her back as he followed her in. It was something he'd done hundreds of times during countless walking conversations in their years at the White House. His light touch had always been partly possessive, partly protective, but mostly absent-minded as he guided her forward or moved her out of the way.

This time, his touch was entirely different. She was all too aware of every slight point of contact between his fingers and her shirt, just in the brief second before he pulled his hand back. She wondered, as she turned to press the button for their floor, if he had felt the difference as well, if he was as hyper-conscious of every time they touched. She knew she had been, ever since that unexpected kiss three weeks ago. On the surface they acted like everything was the same, that the weirdness between them had been a one-day anomaly due to exciting polling data, but she was more excruciatingly aware of him than ever before.

Was he feeling the same way? She had to worry, as the doors slid closed and the elevator jumped to a start. She was second-guessing herself now, suddenly fearful that she'd been over-reading into everything, that moments she analyzed in every detail were just normal interactions for him. She had felt she'd been obvious back at the bar, but now that she thought it through logically, no invitation had really been issued, no feelings or plans explicitly expressed. Was it possible that he didn't even realize what she'd meant? She'd left him alone on the couch and everyone else had gone to bed; maybe he was just heading upstairs to sleep, and they happened to be in the same elevator and this was all in her head…

Her searching eyes found his in the reflection of the metallic doors. No. There was no mistake. The knowingness in his gaze made her dizzy, and she found that she couldn't break eye contact with him in their reflection, couldn't bring herself to look at the real version of him standing just beside her. His hands were deliberately in his pockets, holding back: he'd noticed his hand on her shirt the same way she had. She wondered if he'd been second-guessing as well, thinking he was chasing after an offer that didn't exist. If he had it didn't matter anymore. From the moment their eyes locked there was no need to doubt; they were both thinking the same thing.

The elevator seemed to have slowed to a crawl.

At last, the doors opened onto the seventh floor and she followed him out into the hallway, surprised to discover that her legs were unsteady, lurching recklessly forward and leaving the rest of her to keep up. He was taking initiative now, leading the way to his room. As she watched him open the door, gesture her inside, the whole moment took on an entirely new surreal quality. Up until then she'd been acting out a part, playing a role, saying the things she'd decided to say in order to achieve an end result. Up until then they'd also had an exit strategy, the excuse of a misunderstanding that would let the whole thing turn to nothing once again. But now it was really happening, and for the first time she allowed herself to consider what that actually meant: undressing him, letting him see her naked, allowing for a physical intimacy they'd spent years denying. After all these years, were they actually going to do this?

Apparently they were, because the door hadn't even fully shut behind them before he had her pressed against it, his mouth on hers. After a first surprised exhale as her back hit the door, she responded in turn, reaching for him, not even sure where to start. She touched his chest first, hands up to brace herself, then his neck, his hair, his face; she was overwhelmed by the very fact of kissing him, so solid and real under her touch. He was exactly as she remembered from that morning three weeks ago, and yet completely different, because then he'd been hesitant and tender and now he was deliberate, totally in control.

She hadn't expected him to be so good at this. Not that she'd expected him to be bad, because no man would be able to date Amy Gardner for as long as he had if he weren't keeping her satisfied. No, mostly she'd just never fully thought of him in this light, her mental processes never going beyond her own attraction, her own fantasies of what she would do if she could ever acknowledge her feelings. She knew him so well that picturing him in a context like this was a little uncomfortable, a little hard to visualize. But damn, he actually knew what he was doing.

He kissed like he did everything else: with full-throttle intensity and the utter confidence of someone who knows he's good at what he does. Emotionally immature and skittish he might be, and she had noted it for years, but apparently the physical part came naturally. He was kissing her neck now, expertly, and now her ear, her jaw line, her mouth again. She curled one hand around his neck, the other holding onto his arm for balance, and sank into the kiss. As amazing as it felt, there was still a part of her reeling with the fact that this was Josh, this was Josh whose tongue was in her mouth, whose body was pressed against hers, whose hand was sliding down her back, then back up again, this time under her shirt.

She disentangled herself enough to assist him in getting it off, then went to work loosening his tie and undoing the buttons of his shirt. It was strange, after so many years of dressing him, insisting he change his shirt, fixing his ties, it was strange to be doing the actions in reverse. To finally run her hands over his bare arms and chest, places which she'd only caught glimpses of in the past, peeking when he pulled on a new shirt after a night in the office. Enjoying the newness of his skin, and the fact that she could touch it without an excuse, she tilted her head and kissed across his collarbone. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat that was neither a moan nor a sigh, but somewhere in between, and ran his knuckles up her sides, over her ribcage, before wrapping his bare arms around her.

They were kissing again when his fingers started to feel their way along the clasp in her bra, and she decided that it was time to move things to the bed. Given the rate they were going it wasn't hard to imagine that they might not make it there, but whatever tiny shred of romanticism still survived in her didn't want their first time to be up against a door. As hot as that would be, she wanted a bed. And so she pulled away a bit, pivoted around him, and began walking backwards, holding onto his belt buckle. He followed.

They tumbled together onto the sheets, and after that things moved quickly: they undressed each other by touch in the dark. He helped her shimmy out of her skirt, then her pantyhose, his left hand skimming over her thigh. Shoes were kicked off, clothes dropped to the floor. They rolled over, and then back again. She was glad that the lights were off, because the situation was surreally awkward enough without having to take in their naked bodies together. It was easier just to close her eyes and go on instinct.

Except that it wasn't going to be as easy as she'd hoped. He rolled her over again so he was on top, only to pull away, his body going still.

"Donna?" he asked softly. It was the first time either of them had spoken since the bar, and she was sideswept again by the reality of what was happening. There was no ignoring now that this was Josh, saying her name the same way he always had, using the same tone he always used when talking kindly to her.

"Yes?" She was surprised to hear her own voice come out thin and wispy.

"I'm sorry, I—ah—" he closed his eyes and shook his head, looking as awkward as he sounded.

"we need—I don't—"

She got where he was going. "Right. I have one. Hold on."

He rolled to one side and she got up, pretending she didn't feel self-conscious about her nakedness. Her sweater was by the door with her shirt, and in the pocket she'd stashed a condom along with her room key. She certainly hadn't known that this would happen tonight, but she'd been carrying one since the day they'd kissed on the off chance that another opportunity would present itself.

Making her way back, she dropped her sweater and shirt onto the pile of her clothes that had accumulated on the floor, then sat on the edge of the bed. He was sitting up now as well, with one leg crossed in front of him and the other dangling towards the floor. The wrapper made a crisp little noise as she unwrapped the condom. She handed it to him. He sat staring at it for a moment, then looked up and kissed her suddenly, as if for courage, only to pull back and study her. His eyes were dark.

"Is this…okay?" he asked gently, and the unexpected tenderness in his voice startled her so much that she couldn't answer, could only nod and pull his face back towards hers.

There wasn't any talking after that.

She'd never been loud in bed. As much as she could be accused of too much chatter otherwise, it wasn't her style in the bedroom, a vestige of her early high school days when she was still bashful about her sexuality. But she'd always taken him for a shouter, perhaps because he was one in real life; in the vague recesses of her mind where she'd allowed such thoughts, she'd pictured him as the type to be loud and commanding, to yell in triumph when he came. But their first coupling was filled with only ragged breathing, soft non-verbal sounds of need and exertion and pleasure.

It was over quickly. She stole a glance at the bedside clock when he rolled off of her, and was surprised that they'd lasted as long as they had. After almost nine years of waiting, they'd had very little patience left.

Now they were lying facing each other, still halfway entangled, his face buried in her hair. She could feel his chest rising and falling against hers. Her own pulse was loud in her ears. She wasn't sure where to go from there, what move came next: she'd only calculated this far, and so was glad when he pulled away first. He excused himself in an undertone and went to the bathroom to dispose of the used condom.

She lay on her back in the dark, listened to him filling a cup with water, heard him drinking, and suddenly felt very exposed. She'd had more than her share of one night stands in her twenties, but none of them had ever left her feeling this naked. Quickly, before he came back, she yanked down the bedcovers and slid under, pulled them up to her chin. She lay with her back to his side of the bed and closed her eyes.

He came out of the bathroom and she could hear him stop in the doorway, presumably startled to see her looking so ready for sleep. She felt guilty; maybe she should have waited to talk to him, but she was too tired and overwhelmed to even consider having that conversation. He walked around the bed; it shifted under his weight when he climbed in. She half-expected him to curl up behind her where she'd left room for him, and was a little surprised when he didn't. Maybe he'd misinterpreted her back towards him as a signal not to touch her.

Maybe that was what she'd wanted.

After a few minutes his breathing was softer, steadier. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was facing in the opposite direction, all the way on his side of the bed. The room was dark and still, and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Tried not to breathe too loudly into the silence.

O 


End file.
